Gingerbread Hot Cocoa

Hanukkah ends and the house smells of oil — the permanent olfactory signature of eight nights of latke production, a smell that lives in the curtains and the upholstery and probably my hair and that I love because it smells like every December I can remember, back to the Grand Concourse, back to Sylvia's kitchen, where the oil smell was year-round because Sylvia fried everything and considered the oven a secondary appliance, a backup system for when the stovetop was full, which was always.

I cleaned the menorah — the brass polished, the wax scraped, the candle holders cleared — and put it away for another year. The putting away is its own ritual, the closing of the holiday, the careful wrapping and storing of an object that has been in use for thirty-nine years and that will come out again next December, same time, same table, same blessings, same woman lighting it. Unless it is a different woman. Unless it is Sophie, or Hannah, or someone not yet born. The menorah will outlast me. The brass will hold the flame after my hands can no longer hold the match. This is not sad. This is the point. The menorah is the chain in object form. It carries the light forward.

I made a gingerbread — not cookies, a cake, a dark, spicy, moist gingerbread cake that is not Ashkenazi but which I learned from a colleague years ago and which has become my December non-denominational offering, the thing I bring to the faculty holiday party, the thing that gentiles and Jews and atheists and everyone in between can agree on: ginger, molasses, cinnamon, and the comfort of a cake that tastes like winter. The faculty party was my second-to-last. Next year's will be my last. I am counting the lasts now, noting them, not dwelling on them, but noting them, because the noting is how I honor the things I am about to lose.

The gingerbread cake went to the faculty party, but I kept something back for myself — a version of those same flavors in a mug, quieter, for the night after the menorah goes into its box and the house is almost back to its ordinary self. This gingerbread hot cocoa is what I make when the celebrating is over and the sitting still begins: the molasses and ginger and warm chocolate are all there, the same winter comfort, scaled down to one or two cups at the kitchen table, the kind of thing you hold in both hands. It’s a small ritual of my own, and small rituals are what the counting of lasts is made of.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

2 cups whole milk
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tablespoon molasses
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Pinch of fine salt
Whipped cream, for serving
Cinnamon or cocoa powder, for dusting

Instructions

Combine the dry ingredients. In a small saucepan, whisk together the cocoa powder, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and salt until evenly mixed.
Add the milk and molasses. Pour in the milk and add the molasses. Whisk everything together over medium heat, stirring frequently, until the mixture is smooth and just beginning to steam — about 6 to 8 minutes. Do not let it boil.
Finish with vanilla. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla extract. Taste and adjust sweetness or spice as desired.
Serve. Pour into two mugs. Top with a generous dollop of whipped cream and a light dusting of cinnamon or cocoa powder. Drink while warm, preferably at a quiet kitchen table.

Nutrition (per serving)

Gingerbread Hot Cocoa — The Warmth You Carry Into the Quiet After